


post mortem

by Pond_Melody



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pond_Melody/pseuds/Pond_Melody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he came to, everything felt normal. Good, even. Nothing hurt, nothing felt out of place.</p><p>In hindsight, Benji thought, that should have been his first clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	post mortem

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled upon this (http://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/126472035705/person-b-crying-and-screaming-that-theyre-sorry) post on Tumblr, and well, the rest is history. I admittedly didn't proofread very thoroughly, so any and all criticism is much appreciated.
> 
> (9/7/15) I've done some editing and polishing and I'm much more satisfied now than I was when I posted this. I'd normally do this kind of editing before posting at all, but I just couldn't wait to break your hearts. ;)<3

When he came to, everything felt normal. Good, even. Nothing hurt, nothing felt out of place.

In hindsight, Benji thought, that should have been his first clue.

“Benji. Benji,” said a quiet, panicked voice. Ethan? Brandt? He couldn't quite tell yet.

“Yes, that would be me.” His words were clear and brisk, higher in volume than he intended them to be. Not at all garbled with a swollen tongue or broken jaw. He winced slightly. His head didn't hurt, which was unsettling. In their line of work, unconsciousness generally meant Bad Things. Why didn't anything hurt? “What happened?”

“ _Benji._ ” The voice was louder this time. Sharp. Ethan, then, definitely Ethan. “Benjamin Dunn. Answer me right now. _Answer me._ ”

“I'm right here, Ethan,” Benji snapped. He immediately felt guilty, and decided that now would be a good time open his eyes. Ethan's face was no more than about twelve inches from his own, sweaty and darkened with soot, his eyes searching Benji's. For what, Benji wasn't sure. “I'm right here,” he said more softly. “I'm sorry.”

Ethan continued to ignore him. Was he imagining this?

“Answer me.” His voice was still firm and sharp, but with a desperate edge to it. A command verging on a plea. “Please, Benji, answer me. Please, please answer me."

“Ethan,” Benji said, dumbfounded. He pushed himself up on his elbows, tried to sit up—

(“Ethan, what—,”)

—and passed right through Ethan.

Benji jumped as though he'd been shocked before freezing completely. "Ethan," he said in a dull voice.

Ethan was behind Benji now, and was clearly out of his mind because he was _still_ oblivious to his surroundings. Specifically, the part where Benji moved through him as though he was a bloody _hologram_ or something. "Ethan!" Benji said, turning himself around. "What the  _fuck—_ ,"

It was right then that Benji realized that nothing he could say was going to get through to him. The only thing that mattered to Ethan was the body cradled in his arms. Benji's heart seized with panic and he scrambled to the other side of the supine figure on the floor, his mind racing with questions of who had been hurt and what happened to them when his heart just about stopped completely.

That wasn't a body. That was _his_ body.

Him. Benji Dunn, IMF Agent.

Was he..?

"Oh no," he whispered. "Oh, Ethan..."

Ethan was crying now, still pleading to ears that could not hear him, begging him to open his eyes. He was on his knees, leaning protectively over the younger agent. He cradled Benji's head in his left hand, with his right arm wrapped around Benji's torso, supporting his back. Benji knew he would have thrown up right there if he still had internal organs. Instead, his stomach clenched at the sight before him. Which, if he was being honest with himself, was just as odd, considering he didn't actually have a stomach anymore. Phantom pains, maybe? He guessed so.

_Phantom._

Benji cringed.

“Please, God, no. I'm sorry. I'm so, _so_ sorry.” Ethan paused. Drew a deep breath. Steadied his voice. “Please, Benji. Open your eyes.”

Benji didn't, couldn't, do a thing but watch.

“I'm so sorry, Benji, I'm so sorry. Please, come back to me, please. I can't—,” he paused to draw another breath, tried to steady himself once more, but that was a battle that had been lost already, lost the moment he lifted Benji's limp body from the ground and realized that he was too late. A sob escaped from his throat instead. “I _can't._ "

“Ethan. Don't do this,” Benji requested, ordered, begged. Who could tell the difference at this point? It didn't matter. Ethan couldn't hear him. “Please, Ethan, don't. I love you. Don't do this to yourself.”

It didn't matter, but he had to try.

Ethan bowed his head and curled in on himself slightly, his husband still clutched to his chest. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

Benji moved and settled behind Ethan, wrapped his arms around his husband (widower?) and held him close. Well, he couldn't exactly hold anything in his condition. Rather, they hovered around in a circle around Ethan's waist. Benji could pretend he was holding him, at least. That was something, right?

“Shh, Ethan,” he murmured. “I'm here, I'm right here. I've got you.”

"I love you," Ethan said in a voice so small that, under any other set of circumstances, Benji could have easily mistaken it for a child's. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, you big baby," Benji said, holding him tighter. "I love you, too."


End file.
